


The Safety of Snow

by lawful_feral_merit



Category: Supernatural, The Postman (1997)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Profound Bond Gift Exchange (Supernatural), this got away from me Real Fast but I'm pretty pleased with it, this is very loosely based on The Postman (1997) which is frankly not a GREAT film but here we are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29593926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lawful_feral_merit/pseuds/lawful_feral_merit
Summary: It’s the middle of the night when Dean startles awake again.After a moment of complete stillness in the dark, he recognizes the shape of someone standing over him, just waiting. Dean can’t make out any detail, but if he has to guess, it’s a man approximately his height, maybe a little narrower.“What are you-” He tries to ask, but the stranger makes a motion to be silent.Dean doesn’t know why he feels inclined to obey, but he does.Silence stretches between them as his guardian seems to be listening for something, the sound of approaching footsteps perhaps, then he crouches down next to Dean’s bedroll.“You need to leave,” He explains, his voice low and gravely.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26
Collections: Profound Bond Gift Exchange: Reunion





	The Safety of Snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueeyesandpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueeyesandpie/gifts).



Dean wakes with a start, surroundings unfamiliar and very, very empty. 

_ No _ , he realizes as his vision clears, his heart still racing,  _ Not empty, just… quiet. _

Slowly, the events of the week before filter into his mind. He and Sam had been running- again, still, as always- with the Hellhounds hot on their tail. The bandits wanted to capture them and hand them over to their leaders, the Knights, who would take them back to the local warlord’s base of operations. 

Dean doesn’t know what Azazel wants with them, but it can’t be good. 

Looking around the room, he decides this probably isn’t the Pit. Azazel has a well-known love of theatrics, his men carrying shields with iconography meant to invoke both medieval knights and Hell itself. Here, the word  _ sterile  _ comes sharply to mind. Things are too orderly, too neat, too clean. Dean has been sleeping on a modest bedroll laid on the floor; a window lets in the light from outside through severe metal bars, and the door across the room looks solid and unyielding. 

_ They had me, though… _

It had been a split-second decision. He’d hoped that by sending Sam off on his own, doubling back to cause havoc and distraction, they’d be able to reconnect later at Bobby’s camp. It half-worked, in that when Dean was captured, the Hellhounds didn’t have Sam, and the chatter among them was that it was better to deliver one than risk losing both. He’d fought every step of them dragging him towards their base, knowing what his father would say here.

Better to make them kill you than let them convert you.

Joining Azazel was never an option for Dean. One of the Knights, Alistair, had taken a particular interest in him and was determined to break Dean’s spirit, even if it meant breaking a few bones in the process. If the ringing in his ears is anything to judge from, Dean thinks he remembers a knock to the head, though he can’t say if it was from Alistair or… whoever has apparently rescued him.

Dean is far from relieved, at this point. With every unknown, panic rises in his throat.

He hears footsteps outside the door approaching. He gets his feet under him, his body suddenly reminding him of the assortment of damage he’d taken from Alistair. He tries looking around the room for- something, anything, but finds nothing. It’s less than ideal, but he’s won fights like this before, and if nothing else, he’s willing to go down swinging.

The door opens. The man who walks in seems unhurried, unbothered. He carries himself like he knows he’s the most dangerous person in the room; Dean knows that walk, has practiced it since he grew into his shoulders. It’s hard to say if the confidence is real or manufactured.

“Dean Winchester.” The man smiles, his dark eyes refusing to follow the act. “I am Michael.”

\--

Dean doesn’t know how to react as Michael shows him around the base. He isn’t being treated as a prisoner, though he’s well aware that’s the case. Michael has been telling him about the members of his garrison who’d fought to rescue him from, some giving their lives in the effort. Apparently Dean had slept for the better part of three days, which was terrifying.

Michael talks about the wide-spread conflict with the Knights of Hell, to say nothing of the other warring factions that wander over what used to be the United States.

“Do you remember what life was like, before?” He asks Dean.

It’s a loaded question, a way to decide how best for Michael to get Dean on his side. They both look young enough to have forgotten, and even those old enough to remember could never decide who struck first; retaliation had been swift and extreme, and before long the whole world was burning, infrastructures collapsing until everything went silent. 

Clearing his throat, Dean answers, “Not really, I guess. I was six when the first EMPs were dropped stateside. My mom died in the fires, and then we just… tried to survive.”

That was more than twenty years ago, but not by much, Dean thinks. Time got weird after the collapse, winters dragging on longer each year. The chill in the air tells Dean that it’ll be winter again before long, the fourth since his father had gone missing, the second since Sam and Dean realized they were being tracked by Hellhounds with orders to bring them to the Pit.

“As did we all,” Michael responds somewhat loftily, an edge to his voice as he adds, “Some more successfully than others. I remember the last years of society very well. I remember where we went wrong, and I like to believe I know how we can fix it. But I need help.”

Dean doesn’t take the bait. He’s heard speeches like this before. Azazel and the Knights operate off the writings of someone who was considered a fanatic even before the wars, other groups devolving into feral bands operating by the rule of fang and claw. Whatever Michael is going to try to sell him, he’s going to have to say no.

“Your father is John Winchester, I understand.”

Ice slides down his spine; Dean stops cold, staring at the back of Michael’s shoulder as he passes. The leader only takes a few steps before coming to a pause, waiting for Dean to answer this newest prompt.

He does, hesitantly. “That’s right.”

“John Winchester is a legend,” Michael continues, now turning to face Dean. “The network he built is so close to unifying so many people across this land. He’s a beacon of strength, resilience, hope. If he and the Men of Letters would connect with us, I think-”

“The Men of Letters will always be independent,” Dean interrupts, his voice creaking around the words he’s practiced a thousand times.

It was never meant to be a movement. John had been leading the boys through the shell of an old city when a storm blew in, sudden and intense. They’d sheltered in an old building, which turned out to be a post office. There was a look on John’s face as he started looking over the names, the addresses. When they left, he loaded each of them with a bag, the start of a network of messengers, couriers, dissenters and rebels.

Michael takes a deep breath, face calm if not for the shadows in his eyes. “I can understand the hesitation, given how… some leaders conduct themselves. Our garrison is different. We can help each other.”

Dean scoffs before he can stop himself. “We’ve gotten along just fine without help.” 

The words seem to shake some resolve in Michael’s shoulders, but after a moment, he redirects, asking, “And what of your brother? Samuel, right?”

“Sam.” Dean’s correction is clipped and tight, hackles up. “What about him?”

“We’ve all heard how inseparable you are.” Michael gestures around the camp, adding, “But we didn’t find him with the convoy who was transporting you. It’s a dangerous world, Dean, anything could have happened while you-”

Dean tenses, closing the distance between them, his voice low. “We got separated, I got captured, he got away like he was supposed to.”

“You think.” Michael meets Dean’s stare, his voice placating and soft. “Or maybe now that we’ve recovered you, they circled back and found Sam, and are now on their way to the Pit to do whatever they want with him.”

_ No.  _ It’s unthinkable, Dean knows better, Sam knows better. 

Michael continues, “Or maybe some other faction found him. I mean, it’s not as though Azazel is the only warlord looking to destroy the legacy of John Winchester. It’s even come up here among the garrison.”

It takes a moment for the implication to sink in, but just the one. Dean realizes that this is a threat and a promise, this is an ultimatum where he loses both ways. They’re already looking for Sam, to bring him here and use him as a hostage; play along and we’ll keep him safe, refuse and we’ll trade him to whoever makes the best offer. 

Michael is saying something to him. Dean just stares, swallows harshly.

“You just have to say ‘yes’, Dean.”

Dean can’t say ‘yes’ and they both know that.

He does ask for time to think about it. Michael grants the request, makes a show of the fact that Dean is welcome to wander their haven freely, as long as he doesn’t leave without a proper answer. 

It’s eerily reminiscent of any number of other ‘offers’ Dean has received over the years. He and Sam have become the face of the Men of Letters, the legacy of John Winchester. When people want to join up, Dean swears them in and Sam assigns them a route. They connect new towns and settlements to their neighbors, warn them about the local marauders. They send out notices to different outposts, signing them dutifully, “Postmaster Winchester”.

Four years since John went missing, and no one has missed him yet. 

As Dean wanders the base, he can tell he’s being watched. He can’t tell from where, not yet, but he has no doubt that if he makes a run for it, they’ll take him out. He’s not sure that’s enough to stop him from trying, it just means he has to finesse the details a bit.

\--

It’s the middle of the night when Dean startles awake again.

After a moment of complete stillness in the dark, he recognizes the shape of someone standing over him, just waiting. Dean can’t make out any detail, but if he has to guess, it’s a man approximately his height, maybe a little narrower. 

“What are you-” He tries to ask, but the stranger makes a motion to be silent.

Dean doesn’t know why he feels inclined to obey, but he does.

Silence stretches between them as his guardian seems to be listening for something, the sound of approaching footsteps perhaps, then he crouches down next to Dean’s bedroll.

“You need to leave,” He explains, his voice low and gravely. “Michael has every intention of forcing you to join him.”

Skeptical, Dean responds, “Lots of others have tried-”

“You don’t understand.” His tone is unhurried, even, matter-of-fact. “He isn’t like the others. They don’t really believe what they say, they just use it as an excuse to be cruel. Michael and the garrison truly believe in his mission- and will do whatever is necessary to accomplish it.”

Dean sits up, slowly, not sure that this isn’t a trap. “And you don’t…?”

Silence, then, “I can get you out of here, but we need to go now. I’ve got supplies waiting.”

The fact that he doesn’t answer tells Dean a lot. He pulls himself fully up, reaching for his boots in the dark. His guide grabs the blanket Dean has been using and goes to the door, listening for a few moments before opening it and checking the hallway. 

Dean stops him before he steps out. “What do I call you?”

Even in the dark, he can see the surprise on the other’s face. 

“I’m called Castiel.”

Then they’re moving.

It’s hard to say how they make it as far as they do before someone notices. Castiel moves calmly through the base, as if he is going about the execution of his duties, nothing more. They head towards what Dean thinks is the north side of the camp, not to the gate but to an access point adjacent to it, tucked behind an animal stable. The horses and goats watch them cautiously, but when Castiel holds out his hand to soothe them, they reach for his touch.

On the other side of the wall, Dean is handed a large pack. Some of it includes what he was carrying when the Hellhounds had captured him, but also rations for several days, some creature comforts, and some medical supplies.

When he turns to thank Castiel, the other is standing completely still, staring back into the camp, not seeing but listening. Dean can hear it too; not an alarm, not yet, but some kind of chatter that will lead to a search soon.

Castiel ducks back through the opening for a moment, returning with a pair of goats. Taking a knife from the pack, he cuts the blanket in half, wrapping each half around a goat before giving them a swat and sending them running.

Dean is impressed; if the garrison means to track them by scent, this will give them opportunity for confusion and distraction.

“Can you ride?” Castiel asks quietly. 

Dean nods, and a moment later there’s a horse in front of him, shifting anxiously back and forth. Castiel holds it steady while Dean swings up; the blanket won’t be as comfortable as a saddle, but this means less chance of noise.

Handing the reins up to Dean, Castiel starts to move back towards the opening.

Dean grabs him by the shoulder. “If you go back in there, they’ll kill you.”

Again, not a word, not so much as a glance, which says enough.

“Come with me.” Dean glances out into the forest, up at the sky to read the stars. “It’ll be winter soon, they won’t be able to track us long, we can-”

“They say they know who has my daughter,” Castiel interrupts. He takes a deep, shaky breath. “I can’t leave until I know how to find her.”

“Is that why you’re helping me?” Dean asks, “Because they’re going to hold Sam over me, the way they’re-”

“I can’t leave.” Castiel repeats, more urgently, finally meeting Dean’s eyes. 

Dean has always been told that his impulsivity is going to be what kills him, and he almost believes it most days. Still, here in the dark, he knows he’s making the right call.

“You can’t stay for an empty promise.” Dean relaxes his hold on Castiel’s shoulder, less desperate and more comforting. “If anyone can find her, it’s the Men of Letters. We can help.”

There’s a moment where Dean thinks he’s gone too far as Castiel steps back, eyes back on the base. Their breath is visible in the chill of the night, the only sign that time hasn’t completely stopped.

“Cas,” He tries again. “Come with me.”

It breaks the spell, and suddenly Castiel is taking his hand, swinging up behind him on the horse. His hands wrap around Dean’s middle, holding tightly. 

Dean steadies them for a moment, and then they’re off.

\--

They make it four days before they run into trouble.

Not that they didn’t immediately have trouble on their heels, of course, but they managed to keep ahead of it until then. Bobby’s camp was north, but they circled east first to try to disguise their intent. On the third day, they let the horse loose; Castiel knew there was a settlement further east who would find the horse before long, and it would split any followers even further.

The next day, it was snowing. 

Dean and Castiel both understood that, objectively, this was a good thing. Snow meant their tracks would be hidden, the scent lost, search parties unwilling to go out into the storm. It also meant they needed to track through the snow, however, and that was risky on a good day. 

They kept moving through the night, knowing they would need to stop eventually but trying to put as much distance as they could between the garrison and wherever they bedded down. When they found a bunkhouse- empty but secure- they knew they wouldn’t get a better sign to stop.

“What’s her name?” Dean asks, once they have a fire going.

Castiel freezes for a moment, a piece of wood hovering above the flames. “Whose?”

“You said you have a daughter.” 

A measured breath, then Castiel is moving again. “Claire.”

“How’d you lose her?”

Dean can hear himself and hates how he sounds, pressing to find bruises without knowing their cause. Part of him- the part that sounds like his father- says that this is meant to test his new companion, to know if he can be trusted. 

Castiel sits, pulling a blanket tighter around his shoulders as the warmth of the fire grows. “My wife and I had settled outside a trade post. Not close enough to be involved in… politics, I suppose, but close enough that we were safe. Until the Leviathan moved in.”

Another band of marauders, one of the more vicious. In the early stages of the fallout, they’d gotten a reputation for being cannibals; it’s hard to say how true the stories were, but they served a purpose. They operated as a well-oiled machine, their numbers unknowable and immense. 

“The trade post didn’t want to let them in.” Castiel continued, his voice soft. “So the Leviathan started rounding up anyone in the area they could find, with the intent to trade us for access to the post. When it didn’t work, they started the slaughter.”

Dean shivers, and not from the wind that rattled the windows of their shack. He and Castiel are both crouched near the fire, not quite touching each other. Dean knows they’d be warmer together, but that feels like a lot to ask.

Castiel doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are staring into the flames, though they have no focus. “My wife was in the first group to die. The trade post caved, but the Leviathan offered hostages at random. I was traded, my daughter was not.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

The words come out easily, and Dean means them. John had no qualms about risking his sons’ lives over the years, so it fell to Dean to worry about Sam, to make the hard choices to keep him safe. He can’t imagine what it would feel like to lose that.

When he looks over, Castiel is watching him with a soft expression. He continues, “A few days later, Michael’s garrison showed up, and I begged them to help me save Claire. They raided the Leviathan camp, but she wasn’t there. They said they would track her.”

“But only if you joined them?”

“Yes.” Castiel sighs, adding, “It’s been… five years. It’s hard to believe she could still be alive out there, but I couldn’t let go of the hope. And as long as they told me they were trying, that they were even close at times, it was worth it. If she’s still out there-”

Dean snakes a hand out from his blanket, pressing it to Castiel’s shoulder. “We’ll find her. I got a friend who’s whole operation is helping kids get settled. She’ll know where to look.”

Castiel almost smiles and it does something to the tension in Dean’s chest.

He clears his throat, redirecting, “I can do the first watch, if you want to try to sleep.”

Someone has to keep the fire up, he rationalizes to himself, ignoring the reality that Castiel had packed supplies for one person- and thus, just one bed roll.

“That’s fine,” Castiel answers, standing with an almost audible creak of his bones in the cold. 

Dean does his best to not stare as Castiel moves back to their supplies. He’d been right to guess that they were a similar size, but he’d come to learn that Castiel was older. His hair was as dark as it had looked the night they fled, his eyes were a bright blue that shifted grey. 

He’s so lost in his thoughts that Dean doesn’t realize what Castiel is doing until he says, “Stand up for a moment.”

Dumbly, he does, his confusion growing as Castiel unrolls the base of the bedroll.

“Uh, Cas?” He tries, his voice cracking a bit. “What-”

Castiel continues to busy himself. “Insulating us from the floor. You lose a lot of body heat through the ground.”

_ Right, yeah _ , Dean thinks he remembers hearing something like that from John. If he’s honest, Sam was always the one for attention to detail in survival situations, Dean’s focus was combat.

He watches as Castiel arranges the layers of blankets before gesturing for Dean to sit again; when he does, Castiel slots against his side, wrapping them both in the blankets.

_ It’s just being practical, _ Dean tells himself _. It’s the best way to conserve heat. _

As Castiel leans into him, already falling asleep, he repeats this mantra. 

\--

They’ve run out of supplies at this point. What they’d found in the cabin amounted to a few vessels and some salt, but that didn’t offer much on its own. Neither of them want to waste ammunition on attempting to hunt, not least because the sound will attract attention. The snow has stopped, at least.

Dean offers to set a few snares out. Castiel agrees, though he doesn’t seem to like the idea of splitting up. Dean doesn’t let this go to his head as he builds and sets four traps. When he returns, they scout around the building and find a few wild herbs that will help stretch whatever they can get.

They catch a few rabbits, enough that they can put together a rough idea of stew. Dean butchers the meat while Castiel cleans the skin. They aren’t sure if there’s a point in trying to save them without the right tools to tan them, but it’s worth a shot. Another snow storm rolls over the horizon, threatening to cover the tracks they left. 

It’s almost too easy to be optimistic around the fire, the smell of hot food making them both realize how unsatisfying emergency rations really are. They agree that after the next storm resolves, they’ll need to move on. It’s only a week or so up to Bobby’s, Dean thinks, and he’s sure Sam has feelers out in the surrounding area.

As the dark outside grows dense, Castiel realizes, “We’ll need more wood to make it through the night. I saw a fallen tree when I was pulling cattails that should get us through.”

Dean nods, starting to stand, but Castiel rests a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“One of us should stay warm,” He explains to Dean’s almost startled look. “I’ll be right back.”

Dean lets himself watch through the window as Castiel moves away from the cabin. He counts the steps, thinking to himself that it’s almost too easy to hear the crunch of snow when there’s no undercurrent of settlements. 

It means that when he hears a sharp snap, a sudden collapse, his reaction is immediate.

He’s running over Castiel’s tracks through the snow, knowing that if they’ve been found he’s throwing himself directly into the ambush and not caring.

The cluster of cattails tells him he’s in the right spot. He sees the fallen tree, but the tracks are muddled from their searching this afternoon. Looking around frantically, panic rising in his chest, the truth jumps out at him in stark clarity.

Cattails grow near water. The tree hasn't fallen, it’s submerged.

He takes a step closer, carefully, not sure where the shore stops and the ice begins.

A hand suddenly reaches over the trunk of the tree, clinging desperately. He loses all sense of caution and hurries forward.

“I got you, Cas, I’m right here.” 

He manages to reach him, grabbing him by the elbow and heaving him the rest of the way free from the icy water. Castiel tries to help, to just hold on, but his hands aren’t listening and his body doesn’t want to move. Dean doesn’t blame him, just pulls him up and back to shore.

“It’s alright, hey, I got you.” He knows they don’t have much time before damage sets in, knows they longer it takes him to get Castiel inside the worse it will be.

The walk back to the building is a blur, with Dean all but carrying Castiel against his chest. Dean sets Castiel down near the fire, and takes the risk of loading more logs into the flames before pressing his hands to Castiel’s cheeks.

He’s still alert, which is a good thing; blue eyes meet Dean’s hazel.

“We gotta get you out of the wet, buddy,” Dean says, aiming for firm and not quite making it. “I’m gonna help, alright?”

Castiel nods, and slowly they peel off the layers. Ice shakes loose with every movement, and when he’s down to just his skin, Dean presses him to the bedroll. He knows blankets are only going to insulate the cold, so he makes something of a nest for now, the blankets wrapped over Castiel’s shoulders while leaving his front open to the heat of the fire.

They need more wood, that hasn’t changed.

He scoops a bit of their supper into a mug, carefully wraps Castiel’s hands around it. “Hold this to your chest for now, I’ll be right back.”

As he moves away, Castiel manages, “Dean- need to t-t-tell you-”

Dean presses a hand to Castiel’s crown, stopping him. “Cas, stop. I’m grabbing firewood, I’ll be right back.”

Whatever Castiel thinks needs to be said can wait. There will be time to say it later.

There’s a few smaller trees close to the cabin. It’s more work, but Dean’s adrenaline-fuelled frenzy makes short work of it. He drags them inside, breaking them into reasonable enough pieces to stack. 

He only hesitates a moment before stripping his own damp layers off. 

Castiel has some color back in his lips, but he’s still shaking. His hands are icy white where they’re wrapped around the mug, and it looks like Castiel has managed to actually eat some of it, which probably helps.

When he’s as bare as Castiel, Dean shifts the blankets and tucks himself in, his chest to Castiel’s back, closing the blankets around them. The fire’s heat against his face is present but not so intense to risk over-correcting in the wrong direction.

“I got you, we’re okay,” He murmurs into Castiel’s ear.

The shivering lessens after a moment. Dean takes the mug out of Castiel’s hand and sets it down, wrapping his hands around the other’s to try to rub some feeling back into them. They wander up his arms, over his shoulder, his chest, and Dean doesn’t stop himself from recognizing the irony that this would be almost intimate if he wasn’t so terrified of losing Castiel.

The thump of their heart echoing against each other is the only thing that anchors him.

\--

The snow starts in the early morning. Dean is awake to see it drifting through the windows.

Castiel is asleep against his chest, despite the low-level fear still resting in Dean’s stomach. At first he had done everything he could think to keep Castiel awake, rambling stories about his dad, his brother, what he could remember of his mom before the fires. Eventually, Castiel had stopped shivering, his hands responding when Dean squeezed them. 

Finally, just before the sky had started to grey with dawn, Castiel murmured, “Thank you, Dean.”

Relief swam through Dean’s mind, and for a few moments, they both dozed.

But his instincts reminded him that he had to keep the fire going. It had kept up through the night, and while Dean is pretty sure he could have gotten away with using less of the wood stash, he doesn’t regret it. He’s not looking forward to going back outside for more wood, but that’s just how this is going.

Taking a deep breath, he finds Castiel’s hand with his own and says, “I need you to wake up, Cas.”

A soft hum, then, “M’ere. S’wrong?”

Dean chuckles. “Nothing new, buddy, as far as I know. But I gotta do a better job with our wood supply if we want to get your gear dry. You gonna lay down while I’m out?”

“I think that’s best,” Castiel manages more articulately. He arches his back in a stretch, head dropping back on Dean’s shoulder for a moment, before leaning away. “Still feeling shaky.”

Dean has to swallow, his mouth suddenly dry. “Yeah, that’s- yeah, that makes sense. We’ve got some pine around, I’ll see about getting some needles for tea. Just hang out for a bit.”

He separates himself, wrapping Castiel back in the blankets. His body was back to producing heat, so he didn’t feel guilty about leaving; he did feel the loss keenly himself as he frantically climbed back into his own gear.

When he glances back at Castiel, he realizes the other has been watching.

The flush on his face is almost certainly visible. Dean doesn’t say anything as he heads outside.

It’s easier finding wood, even in the barest of light that the morning affords. He does find a pine with a good selection of needles, so he strips a few handfuls into his pocket. He tries to read the wind, decide where the storm is coming from, how long it’ll be staying. The plan to move on after it stops might not work if Castiel is still recovering, but Dean worries that the longer they wait, the more likely they’ll be found- or that Sam will get the wrong idea.

He heads back inside, kicking the door closed on autopilot before going completely still.

In his haste to get Castiel dry and warming, he hadn’t really paid attention to the design etched into his back. Seeing it now, tucked between the cool light from outside and the warmth from the fire, Dean can see the shape of wings stretching down Castiel’s back, feathers carefully lined in black and filled with blue. Castiel is stretching, rotating his elbows and shoulders, and Dean feels like he’s stumbled upon some forbidden sight.

Then Castiel looks at him over his shoulder, and the spell is broken.

The blankets go back over Castiel’s shoulders, hiding the tattoo from view. Dean stacks the wood, movements a little stiff as he tries to affect some kind of dignity. He relinquishes the pine needles into a pot full of snow-turned water, watching as the tea took form before filling one of the mugs for Castiel.

They don’t speak for a while after, and despite Dean’s initial fear, he finds it isn’t an uncomfortable silence. They finish the last of the batch of stew, but they’ve got enough meat for another before Dean needs to worry about resetting the snares. Before dark falls, the snow has stopped, and the wind beats at the cabin a bit more gently.

Castiel’s voice doesn’t crackle when he says, “You don’t have to wait for me.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Cas.” There’s no hesitation in Dean’s words. “It’s kinda late to be leaving you to die in the wilderness, I mean, you already got my best pillowtalk.”

He’s close enough to see the red creep up Castiel’s neck. Dean can’t help but grin.

There’s another quiet moment, then Castiel adds, “You don’t- when you asked me if I was helping you because of what Michael was planning, I didn’t answer.”

Dean’s grin softens, concern crawling over his chest. “No, you didn’t…”

“That was part of it, but it was more-” Castiel stops, sighs, and looks at Dean directly. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

His heart stops for a moment, not knowing what to say, unsure of what Castiel means.

Then Castiel adds, “I was the one who found you in Alistair’s camp.”

It all floods back. 

Alistair had gotten fed up with Dean’s sass. He’d commented that yes, Azazel had wanted to capture the Winchesters alive, his priority was Sam; it mattered a lot less what happened to Dean, as long as there was enough of him to bargain with later. 

He’d tied Dean to a tree one night when they’d stopped, and then laid into his flesh with every tool the Knights had with them, each a little more sinister than the last. He gave the Hellhounds their chance at the play, explaining for Dean’s benefit that they would have to learn to be at peace with pain if they ever wanted to be a Knight someday. 

There’d been an alarm raised, but it was too late. Dean couldn’t see the battle, but he could hear the different forces calling out. Hands cut him free, and when he started to collapse, they grabbed him and pulled him up, and he’d found himself facing-

“You carried me out of there.”

Castiel nods. He turns his eyes back to the fire, taking a deep breath before continuing, “And even with- everything you’d been through, not knowing what was happening- even then, the first thing you said was-”

“Don’t let them take you,” Dean suddenly recalls.

“When Michael was talking about getting you to join him,” Castiel explains, “I just kept thinking about what you said. You had no idea who I was, but you were warning me- not about being captured, but about being convinced. I knew you weren’t going to join, and I knew- I know that Michael would never have let you leave. So I had to get you out.”

Dean shakes his head, baffled. “Cas, I- you didn’t-”

“I didn’t have to,” Castiel agrees. “But it was the right thing to do. I knew that. And when you asked me to come with you, I knew that was the right thing, too.”

There’s something they’re both not saying, and Dean can feel it. He tries to remind himself that he knows better, that nothing about this is the way it should be. He knows this is risky.

When Castiel looks at him again, there’s a question in his eyes.

Dean answers it the best way he can, leaning a little closer, a threat and a prayer. Castiel closes the distance, pressing their lips together, the caress feather-light and full of promise.

\--

It takes them two weeks of walking in the snow before Dean starts to recognize the area, and the familiarity arrives with a sense of tension.

“Cas,” He murmurs, adjusting the grip on the single rifle they’ve been able to keep. “Get behind me, keep your head down.”

Dean knows Castiel is as prepared to fight as he is, but he has to hope that’s not what’s going to happen. 

He hears rather than sees the movement, eyes focused on the trees around him. Castiel presses a hand to Dean’s back, resting just between his shoulder blades; Dean hums a single note of approval, just as he hears a snap that’s a little too close.

The rifle is up to his shoulder in a fluid movement, trained on the source of the sound.

“Stand down!” He calls, his voice deep in his chest to hide any panic. 

He’s met with silence, then the sound of footsteps in the snow as their observer steps out of their hiding place. Dean watches as they reach up to pull a scarf down from their face, but he’s already moving before the hood is thrown back.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice is awestruck, arms falling to his sides as the realization dawns.

As he wraps his arms around his brother, Dean’s voice breaks as he responds, “Yeah, Sammy, it’s me.”

\--

“Jody’s place is gone.”

Dean’s head snaps back to Sam from where he’d been watching the trail ahead as they walk back towards home. “You’re shitting me. What happened?”

“Fangers got to it,” Sam explains, his voice unhurried and dismissive. “Sounds like they were using a teenage girl as bait, Jody caught wind and pulled her out, and the fangers didn’t care for that.”

“Oh gee, what a surprise,” Dean’s voice is dripping with sarcasm.

Sam’s face shares the feeling. “She handled it fine, but the place was made, so she torched it. The plan is for her to meet up with Donna and find a new base, she’s been at Bobby’s for a few weeks.”

As if on cue, Bobby’s place comes into view as they crest a hill. Sam pulls his scarf free, waving it through the air to signal all was well. Dean slows to a stop, waving off the concern Sam throws him before continuing up.

Castiel hasn’t said anything beyond introducing himself to Sam. Dean turns to him and holds his hand out, squeezing when Castiel takes it.

“You okay?”

Castiel nods. “I just- wasn’t sure if you would- in front of your brother, I mean.”

Dean rolls his eyes a little, pulling Castiel close and kissing the breath from him. He knows Sam will see, and Bobby, and whoever else is keeping watch from the cabin. 

When he pulls away, he explains, “This is home. Home is safe, for all of us.”

There’s a flush on Castiel’s cheeks and a smile on his lips. He nods again, adding somewhat sheepishly, “Seeing you with him was- I’m glad you found each other again.”

Dean sighs, presses another kiss to Castiel’s cheek. “We’ll find Claire. Jody’s got a nose for finding kids, trust me.”

“Hey, idjit!”

With a laugh, Dean turns back to the cabin. A man approaches, his face shadowed with what is meant to be anger but is clearly fondness.

“Hey Bobby! You miss me?” Dean’s voice is confident and teasing, and he lets go of Castiel to return the embrace Bobby offers him.

“Like a hole in my boot,” Bobby agrees, giving Castiel a cursory nod. “Y’all need to get inside, it’s colder than hell out here.” 

Dean takes Castiel’s hand again as they walk back to the cabin. There’s a barn beyond, signs of various projects and efforts scattered around. A woman is crossing from the barn with Sam. Jody greets Dean with a much more genuine affection than Bobby, and she introduces herself to Castiel.

“Cas might need your help before you and Donna head out,” Dean explains. “Leviathan made off with his kid a few years back, but it sounds like she’s still out there.”

Jody immediately turns to Castiel, her face going serious as she begins a clearly practiced line of questions. “Daughter? How old was she? What’s her name?”

Clearing his throat, Castiel offers, “She was eleven, so she’d be about sixteen now. Her name is-”

“Dad?”

Castiel’s eyes snap back to the barn. Dean follows the look, seeing a young woman hesitating in front of the barn door. Her blonde hair is tied away from her face, but even from a distance Dean can see those bright blue eyes, a perfect mirror of her father’s.

“Claire.”

No one moves for a moment. Then Jody moves, stepping back to clear the path. Claire glances at her, unsure; Jody nods, and that’s all it takes to send her running. Castiel catches her, holds her so tightly that Dean can barely hear how she sobs against his shoulder.

His heart swells when he hears Castiel echoing his own words, “I’ve got you. I’m right here. I’m so sorry, Claire, I’ve got you.”

Dean only looks away when Jody suddenly lunges forward, but she doesn’t manage to stop the small child who has rushed over to Claire and Castiel. The young boy reaches up to tug on Claire’s jacket, and with a bit of a startle she pulls away.

“Oh- hey, buddy, sorry about that,” She laughs shakily, reaching down to pick him up.

Castiel’s eyes go a little wide in shock. “Who’s this?”

“Jack,” Claire says, a wobble in her voice. “He um- his mom was with me, for a while, but when he was born, she-”

Understanding settles like a stone in Dean’s chest, and he can see Castiel feels the same.

He presses a hand to Claire’s cheek, then offers it to Jack, the picture of business.

“Hello, Jack,” He offers, explaining, “My name is Castiel. Are you Claire’s friend?”

Jack curls his body against Claire’s shoulder, but shyly reaches out to press his fingertips to Castiel’s; it earns him a smile from both of the adults, and in that moment Dean realizes that his family unit is about to get a lot bigger.

“Anyone who’s not inside in the next fifteen seconds doesn’t eat!”

Bobby’s threat is empty, but it does get everyone moving towards the cabin. Castiel throws an arm around Claire and Jack, the other hand reaching back for Dean. 

Spring will bring new chaos and conflict; it always does.

But for now, Dean is ready to revel in the safety of snow.


End file.
